


Downpour

by entanglednow



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris looks like a particularly cross water nymph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downpour

The entire sky had opened on the way back from the docks. They'd been far enough away from the mansion that Hawke's armour has accumulated pools and rivers, in its previously helpful curves - tilt him far enough in any direction, and he'd wager he would pour like a jug.

Fenris looks no better. The rain seems to have stolen pounds off of his slim frame. Leaving him as nothing but narrow limbs, and shining lines of blue. He seems to be compensating by scowling harder than usual. He follows Hawke home, rather than cross the square to his own mansion, ends up dripping on Hawke's terribly insufficient mats. He looks like a particularly cross water nymph. Not that Hawke would ever dare tell him that.

The thunder of the rain outside is strangely invigorating.

Fenris's white hair is pressed down in juts and spikes, trailing water down his face, and Hawke knows he won't be able to resist for long, before he's trying to dig underneath it with his fingers, pushing it off his face. He won't be able to help himself.

So he doesn't try - he takes two blind steps, until Fenris's back hits the wall.

"If you have a pressing desire to go back to your mansion, you should tell me now, or I'm going to kiss you," Hawke says thickly. So close to Fenris's mouth. But permission is very important to Hawke. The way that Fenris says yes. There's nothing like it.

"I'm in no hurry." Fenris voice is a rumble of amusement, not nearly so angry as before, and there's the rushing clatter of armoured gloves hitting his floor. Hawke steps on one of them when he presses in close, fingers on the back of Fenris's slender neck, not pulling, just letting his fingers slide up damp skin. He finds the wet curl of Fenris's hair, and he can smell the rain on him, lyrium and leather, and the faint scent of burnt raiders and blood.

It smells like home, and he's so amused by that he can't do anything but kiss him. Fenris mouth is wet from the rain, aggressive, agreeable and Hawke's barely thinking, he's just pulling, sliding his fingers wherever he finds a gap, unclasping by sense memory alone. He doesn't stop kissing Fenris until he's half peeled off his armour, and there's a long curve of skin, unbroken lines of lyrium, and the shift of Fenris breathing. His own breathing sounds too hard, too fast. He holds the elf still against the wall, and just _looks_ at him. Hawke wants his mouth again, so badly he can barely think.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me, every time I see you like this?" Hawke asks.

"Tell me," Fenris says, demanding, eyes sharp, like he wants to hear it.

If he's expecting poetry Hawke isn't up to it.

"I would fuck you right here if I thought I could get away with it, without the dwarves stumbling in and being scandalised." Hawke doubts Bodhan will come back in this downpour if he's out, and Oriana tends to make herself scarce, with an ability that Hawke might call psychic, whenever Fenris is around. "I'm inclined not to care the longer you look at me like that."

Fenris's mouth twists at the corner. "Against the wall?"

It wouldn't be the first time. Hawke presses a knee up between Fenris's thighs, feels them spread for him. He watches the wet line of his mouth open, just a little. He wants to worship it and defile it at the same time.

"Yes, right here against the wall, armour scattered around us like shrapnel. Your fingers dug in the pelmet, and your legs around my waist, making noises like you've never been fucked before."

There's a growl in Fenris throat, and it goes all the way through Hawke. If he hadn't been hard already he would have been right then.

Fenris glares. "I believe I should have you on your knees for your impertinence."

Hawke groans agreement, because, yes, he can do that too.

"You want to fuck my mouth?"

Fenris jerks and hisses, like he hadn't been expecting it. The vulgarity of it. It sounds beautiful to Hawke.

"Yes," Fenris says, draws the word out, makes it vicious. "I want to fuck your mouth."

"And what have you done to deserve that?" Hawke says with a smile - though perhaps it's the other way around.

Fenris grits his teeth, glares at him.

"Slaughtered my way through half the bandits in the wounded coast."

"And looked fantastic doing it," Hawke agrees, sliding his fingers into Fenris's trousers, with more enthusiasm than care for the fabric. His thumb finds a sensitive curl of lyrium, traces it over and over, until every breath hitches out of Fenris's throat.

"Damn you, Hawke."

"If you want me to shut up and get on my knees, then make me."

Fenris snarls, narrow fingers tangling and fisting in his hair, and it's far too easy to sink under the pressure, to feel the carpet under his knees, and the clench of Fenris's stomach muscles under his mouth. To smell him, to press the side of his face against the hard line of him, and feel him shift under the pressure.

"You're magnificent like this." Hawke can't help the awe that creeps in over the desire, thumbs sliding and skidding on the curls of lyrium under Fenris's skin. He drags Fenris's leggings down with his thumbs, slow enough to get him an impatient groan - and he can't resist leaning in again, and digging his teeth into the low plane of Fenris's stomach, beard dragging on the skin. Every inch of Fenris is beautiful, every lyrium covered inch, and he will spend as long as necessary convincing the irascible elf of exactly that. Even if he has to worship him until the lesson sinks in.

"When you're finished, I'm going to tongue your pretty arse until you're begging," Hawke growls. "Then I'm going to fuck you."

"I don't beg," Fenris says fiercely, but his voice is a wreck, hips twitching into Hawke's grip. There's a hand, cold and still faintly damp, twisting in Hawke's hair. It's demanding, greedy and Hawke lets it shove his head down. He opens obediently at the first push against his mouth, let's Fenris slide all the way in, fingers clenching and relaxing in his hair.

There are no words, at least none that Hawke recognises. There's just the forceful push of fingers, and suction, and the roar of rain against the windows, and _Fenris_. There's a quiet, fierce sort of desperation to him, as if even now, he believes every time will be the last. Hawke is trying to break him of that too. Though there is something to be said for the _fury_ of it sometimes.

For the way it leaves him panting against Fenris’s sharp hipbone, mouth sore and bitter, fingers clenched too tight on Fenris's thighs. Arousal a mess of weight and heat and _need_.

Fenris's hand is trailing weakly through his hair.

"I believe you promised you would make me beg," he says slowly.


End file.
